


high charisma

by smolpot8o



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Brief mention of sexual assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monster of the Week, Monsterfucker Jaskier, Monsterfucking, Multi, Not actually crack, Shockingly I am playing this straight, Sirens, Vaginal Sex, Vampires, Werewolves, When your ranger character just wants to kill the boss but the bard rolled a nat 20 for seduction, Yes this is a D&D reference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolpot8o/pseuds/smolpot8o
Summary: 5 times the bard seduces the monster...(...and 1 time the bard gets seduced.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Some Geralt/Yennefer/Jaskier
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1376





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...Well, _someone_ had to do it.
> 
> For Day 2 of Geraskier Week. I'll be posting oneshots for other days on my Witcher [sideblog](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com/).

“Sirens?” says Jaskier, trailing the witcher out of the tavern and towards the stables. “You mean like mermaids?”

Geralt grumbles. “They’re not merfolk.”

If he were less irritated, he might share his personal theories that the two species are related, that perhaps sirens are mutated or even cursed merfolk, possibly in defense against human hunting. That might also be why they’ve traveled so far inland, upriver.

But he would rather not draw the bard in any further. This might be the hunt that gets him killed.

“I’ve got to see this,” says Jaskier, with a telling glint in his eye.

Roach butts the bard in the shoulder, as if she doesn’t approve where this is going. Geralt can smell it, a hint of musk under the usual dandelion perfume and natural sweetness. Well, more musk than usual－the witcher’s beginning to suspect that lust is just a part of Jaskier’s natural scent.

Jaskier continues shamelessly, falling in step with the witcher and his horse. “I’ve heard they’re _gorgeous_. Say, what is the word on their _bottom_ halves? Are there any man-sirens? If they’re all women, how do they－”

“You’re not coming.”

Sirens hunt in packs. He can’t risk losing track of one of them, and having it lure the fool in.

“Bollocks to that!” says Jaskier. “I’m not about to miss out on your first _sexy_ monster.”

Geralt turns around to glare properly. “There are no _sexy_ monsters.”

“Oh, you’re so boring.” Jaskier waves a hand at him. “I’m sorry to inform you, witcher, but sex sells. You haven’t given me nearly enough bawdy material to work with until now. Or so I hope."

Geralt does not spare a glance to those big, pleading blue eyes. He will not.

But there's no need to look. He's not about to hop on Roach and ride away. He's thought about it, nearly every time they meet, but he has yet to ever try.

Before they leave town, the witcher buys some beeswax. Jaskier will have to plug up his ears, to keep him from being lured by siren-song, or stunned by their scream.

They spend the day following the wide river, not far from the sea. It’s actually rather pleasant. The sun is warm, but the water is cool. Geralt catches them some fish for lunch.

Jaskier takes off his boots and rolls up his pants and shirtsleeves, treading the white sand while strumming his lute. His song is familiar－the witcher’s heard it on docks and seaside taverns－though he’s pretty sure that the bard is embellishing some of the lyrics.

_His hair, it hangs like winter_

_His eyes as black as coal_

_My happiness attend him_

_Wherever he may go_

Geralt nearly gives into the urge to lay back in the sand and nap. But it’s a good thing he doesn’t. There’s a shimmer in the water, the glitter of spiny fins.

He draws his silver sword.

“Jaskier!”

The bard stops singing, beginning to swing his lute protectively onto his back. His heart thunders loud enough for the witcher to hear.

“Cover your ears!”

Jaskier scrambles for his pack, stuffing the beeswax in his ears. But the water is still. There’s no splash, no sign of fins.

“Well?” asks Jaskier, a little too loud, unable to hear his own voice.

“Keep playing,” says Geralt. And he mimes the gesture, on his sword rather than a lute, just in case.

The bard looks nervously at him, but he still swings his lute back to his front, strumming uncertainly without being able to hear it. But his fingers still know their way by instinct, if not by hearing. Same with his voice.

_While up aloft in storm_

_From me his absence mourn_

_And firmly pray arrive the day_

_He's never more to roam_

Now, there’s splashing. The sirens are presenting their half-human form, looking like innocent, curious maids peeking out of the water.

“Oh, my gods,” says Jaskier, in between verses. His eyes are wide, drinking in the vision before him. The three creatures appear lovely, fresh-faced, with long hair and glistening wet breasts, as they crawl up onto the shore. Their fish tails glimmer in the sunlight.

But they seem just as entranced with Jaskier as he is with them. Once they reach him, they simply lay there on the shore and _listen_ , propping their heads on their human-like hands, swishing their tails. One of them leans her head curiously up to the bard, tilting her face up. The witcher’s never seen this before.

And then, she begins to sing. Her voice weaves together with the bard’s, and though the witcher is supposed to be immune to magic, for a moment, he doubts.

_My heart is pierced with wanting_

_I disdain all glittering gold_

_There's nothing can console me_

_But my jolly sailor bold_

He’s almost loathe to have to stalk closer, sword aloft.

That knick of silver, glinting like water, doesn’t escape the sirens. Two of them hiss, their faces going fishy and fanged. They dash across the sand with incredible speed, eel-like.

Jaskier keeps playing, distracting the third.

But by the time there’s blood in the sand, the two sirens like beached whales reeking in the sun, it’s gone silent, save for the witcher’s breaths.

“Jaskier!”

There’s a splash. The bard and the last remaining siren are nowhere to be seen. Just the lute laying there on the sand.

“Fuck.”

Geralt rips off his armor, so it won’t weigh him down. He gulps in a deep breath, and then dives.

His witcher eyes don’t mind the sting of the water, able to see clearly through the murk. And he’s fast, quickly following the flick of that long tail toward the reeds at the bottom of the river. When he sinks all the way, there’s two bodies laying in the sand.

He can’t smell underwater, so he simply _prays_ not to see any blood, where the siren’s still human-like hair floats, concealing their faces.

But then a familiar human hand runs through those locks. Jaskier’s face is tilted up into the siren’s, and while her fangs are peeking out, she’s not devouring him. They’re _kissing_.

Geralt’s definitely never seen _that_ before.

He’s almost reluctant to stick his dagger into the mermaid’s back. _Almost_.

Her face goes fishlike, fangs fully retracting as she screams silently under the water. Jaskier’s scream is silent as well, as he pushes back and away, kicking up sand.

Geralt finishes the job by slicing the creature’s neck.

He wonders what makes the bard’s eyes roll back, his body going slack－whether it’s the blood floating in the water, or the lack of air, finally making him faint. The witcher gathers him up and shoots for the surface, treading with one arm to take them both back to shore.

Jaskier is still limp, as he’s hauled onto the sand. Geralt tilts his head back, and, heart pounding, covers his mouth with his own, breathing air into his lungs. Then he pulls back, pumping his hands on his chest.

The bard gasps, coughing up a fountain of water.

Geralt helps him turn over, clapping his back, letting him return the river water in his lungs to the tide. Then he yanks the beeswax out of his ears.

“Ow,” says Jaskier.

“What the _hells_ were you thinking?”

“I _wasn’t_ ,” says Jaskier. He’s still panting, dripping hair clinging to his brow. “It’s not like she _asked_ before she grabbed me and dragged me under!”

Geralt glares at him. At least, he tries, distracted by the way the bard’s flimsy shirt is plastered to his body, translucent enough to see all the hair on his chest.

“You didn’t look like you were putting up a fight.”

“I forgot I had to breathe."

Geralt gets to his feet, growling as he looms over the bard. "You're lucky to be alive."

"It's not luck," says Jaskier, looking up with a hint of a smile. "It's just you."

He ignores the sentiment, still too mad, because being mad is safer, more useful, than being scared. “Next time, don’t just lay back and take it.”

Once his back is turned, he wipes his mouth. He’s not going to count this as their first kiss. It hadn’t been _mutual_ , just a life-saving necessity.

And it had tasted of _fish_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jolly Sailor Bold" is a public domain bop and I have no regrets. 
> 
> (Actually, I have a lot of regrets.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the tags with a slight trigger warning for this next chapter, so just in case, please double check before proceeding.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos! Sometime I will try and combat my social anxiety enough to actually reply, but for now just know that it definitely helps me put fingers to keyboard. Also, if my monster lore is not canonically inaccurate... sorry not sorry. I tried to do homework on it, but I got bored, so I just wrote this smut instead.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt hates being in town. It’s too noisy, just the heartbeats alone, let alone the chatter and busy comings and goings. And it’s overwhelmingly smelly, mud and horse, food and shit. There’s just too many humans packed closely together. It makes him miss being the only person in miles.

Well, the only other person. At least Jaskier smells nice. Even if he’s also much too loud. Though he actually makes a pretty good buffer between him and the rest of the humans.

“What does it look like?” asks Jaskier. He leans over the table with interest, his ale long untouched. Geralt helps himself to it.

“It must be ravishing,” says their potential customer, a statuesque Madame. “Elsewise, it wouldn’t be stealing business away from my girls, and eatin’ up our longtime customers.”

Jaskier turns to him. “Could it be an succubus?”

Geralt shakes his head. “They don’t usually kill.”

“It must be a vampire, then,” says Jaskier. “A _vampiress_.”

“Fuck.”

* * *

They stake out at a tavern next to the brothel, where clients often go to booze up before their visit, or afterwards. It’s a safe bet that the vampiress intercepts here.

Jaskier doesn’t sing any witcher songs tonight. They need to keep a low profile. Vampires aren’t stupid.

There’s a number of beautiful women in the tavern, but most are working women from next door, taking a break, less busy with some of their regulars permanently indisposed. They can rule them out. That leaves three potential suspects, two brunettes and a redhead.

Jaskier flirts with each of them in between songs. Geralt keeps watch.

“I can’t tell,” says Jaskier, retreating to their table in a dark corner, and taking a swig from the witcher’s beer. “They all seem perfectly lovely and human to me.”

“They smell like it,” says Geralt. All three are too perfumed for him to detect anything off.

“What about their heartbeats, wouldn’t you notice if they didn’t have one?”

“But they do.”

They simply have to watch and wait. One of the brunettes begins eating, which vampires can’t do, so they can rule her out. And the other brunette appears to get steadily drunker and drunker through the night, clutching her companion for the evening and laughing raucously. She could be faking it for cover, but vampires can’t get drunk, either.

The redhead, their most likely suspect, appears to be leaving, with a drunken gentleman. Geralt moves to follow them.

But Jaskier gets to them first, blocking their exit. “Darling!”

The potential vampiress, and her potential victim, blink at the bard in confusion. Geralt ducks around a pillar and tries not to curse aloud.

“Please don’t do this, my love,” says Jaskier. “I’ll make up for everything, I promise. Just don’t leave with him.”

“Who’s this?” asks the gentleman.

The redhead lets her rosy lips hang open for a moment.

Jaskier puffs up. “I’m her _betrothed_.”

He’s playing it up too much. It’s a good thing the potential victim is drunk out of his wits.

There’s a glint in the redhead’s eye now. “Formerly,” she says, playing along.

“We can fix this,” says Jaskier.

She lets slip a little grin. “How would you make it up to me?”

“Bugger this,” says the gentleman, staggering away.

Jaskier may have just saved the man’s life. The bard will stand a better chance against the vampiress. If he doesn’t let his lust cloud his judgement.

“How about that apology, _darling_?” she asks. “I think perhaps we’d better talk in private.”

“Oh, yes,” says Jaskier, a tad high pitched. He smells nervous, but excited. “We are going to have _words_.”

Geralt follows in silence, not letting the two out of his sight, as they head for a room upstairs. But he’ll have to wait till fangs are out, so he doesn’t accidentally behead some innocent tart just for trying to bed the bard.

Then again… maybe they do have the wrong lady. All the witcher can hear behind the door is loud, breathy kissing, the groan of wood and a soft gasp as a body hits the wall. His hand goes to the stake strapped in place of one of his swords. But he stops to listen to the muffled voices.

“Ow,” says Jaskier. “You’re certainly _toothy_ , aren’t you?”

She sounds almost sincere. “Do you mind?”

“Ah, not _usually_ －”

“What if I promise not to hurt you?” she asks. “No more than you wish to be hurt.”

“Well… I’d really, truly love to believe you…”

So would Geralt. But if that really is a monster in the room with the bard, he’s never heard a more polite one.

Clothes rustle, fluttering to the floor. “I _promise_.”

"Oh, good... _yes_ , good."

The witcher can smell their arousal through the wooden walls. Maybe he should leave. This is getting uncomfortable.

“Such a pretty thing,” she says. “I could just eat you _up_.”

But he’d never forgive himself if right after turning the corner and heading back downstairs, trying to drink the tightness in his pants away, that’s when the fangs come out.

So he just stands there, out in the hallway, feeling like a lech as the whines and moans reach a new pitch. Not long after that, the bed begins to creak.

“Could I show you something?” she asks.

“ _More_?” says Jaskier, breathlessly. “I can see everything－”

“I hope it doesn’t scare you.”

There’s a strange noise, and a gasp. What the fuck is going on in there?

“Oh,” says Jaskier.

“Do you wish to stop?”

“Um, actually… you know what? I could work with this－keep going－”

“May I have a taste?”

“Well… since you asked so _sweetly_ …”

That fucking idiot.

Jaskier cries out. There’s the scent of blood.

Wood splinters as Geralt breaks down the door.

They found the vampiress, after all. Her face is twisted monstrously, her fangs out and bloody. Geralt almost doesn’t even notice her pale nakedness, his attention on the body straddled beneath her.

Jaskier is breathing, his blue eyes heavy-lidded, only to widen. “Geralt?”

His wrists are pinned over his head, blood beading on the bite to his neck.

“Do you mind?” says the vampiress.

Then she notices the stake in the witcher’s hand. Instantly, she’s across the room, slamming Geralt into a wall. She struggles to hold back the hand gripping the stake.

“This is none of your business, witcher,” she says. “I’m not doing anything to him that he doesn’t want.”

“That’s right,” says Jaskier, weakly, from the bed. He sounds a little lightheaded. “She’s been very polite.”

“She ate three men,” says Geralt.

Her red eyes seem to go even redder. “They were hurting the girls,” she says. “Doing things to them that they didn’t agree upon and didn’t want. And the Madame turned a blind eye.”

She’s close enough to human that she doesn’t smell as if she’s lying. And when they’d questioned the girls, they certainly hadn’t been all that broken up about the loss of their clientele. But they had been loathe to talk about the Madame. Now he understands why. He’ll have to have a word with her.

But he does still have a job to do. It would sour his reputation if the killings went on.

He lets go of the stake, and the vampiress lets go of his arm. And yet they still remain inches apart, glaring at each other.

“Leave this place,” he says.

Her face goes back to normal, save for the blood. “Why should I?”

“There is no shortage of evil men who deserve to meet their comeuppance. But you have drawn too much attention to yourself. And the next witcher, or angry mob, may not be so understanding as I am.”

She gives him a long stare. “They say we neither of us have feelings, witcher. But we know the truth, don’t we? I appreciate your advice. It’s about time for a change of scenery.”

“In the song, I’m going to say he slew you,” says Jaskier, still woozy. “Just to cover your tracks.”

The vampiress grins. “You chose your bait well, he’s such a charmer. If I leave town, will you let me play with him for a little longer?”

Geralt growls.

“Please?” says Jaskier.

Now that the danger is past, the witcher can’t help but take in the bard’s body. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, bathing in rivers and tubs. But not like this, laid out like a feast on the bed, lithe and pretty, with a surprising amount of hair, his pale skin flushed and glistening. And his slender cock is still half-hard. What, from watching the naked vampiress slam the witcher into the wall?

He almost can’t blame her for sinking her teeth into him.

Geralt gets in her face. “If you harm him－any further than he _wants_ to be harmed－I will bury a piece of you in every land on the Continent.”

“Aww, Geralt,” says Jaskier. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Hmm.”

The witcher does his best to put the door back on its hinges on his way out.

He pays for the room next to theirs. So he can hear through the walls if one of those two heartbeats stops. And so the vampiress can hear him sharpening extra stakes. It’s both a relief, and a curse, hearing all that screaming, in pleasure and in pain. He really does have a wonderful singing voice.

* * *

A few hours later, there’s a knock at the door.

Jaskier is unconscious, but breathing, in the arms of the vampiress. She’s carrying him, wrapped in a bedsheet, his bare shoulders and neck ringed red with teeth marks.

“He’s fine,” she says defensively. “For all that they’re so delicate, humans are also surprisingly sturdy.”

Geralt growls again, but steps aside, letting the vampiress in to lay Jaskier down on the bed. She leaves briefly and comes back with his clothes and his lute.

“Make sure he eats something when he wakes up,” she says, helpfully. “I’m off. I hope our paths don’t cross again. Next time, I don’t know if I can hold back. He’s too _delicious_.”

He twirls the stake in his hand. “Remember what I said.”

“I will,” she promises. “Bid him a good morning for me.”

As soon as she’s gone, the witcher pulls back the sheet around Jaskier. He’s covered with bruises and bites, some deeper than others, on his throat and chest, wrists and thighs. Geralt fetches some healing salve from his pack. It would be a shame for him to survive a night with a man eater, only to succumb to infection. Quickly and quietly, he rubs the salve into every cut, trying not to let his hands linger for too long.

In the morning, he buys some fruit tarts from downstairs. Sugar is best for blood loss.

Jaskier is sitting up in bed, pale with dark circles under his eyes, in nothing but an open shirt and smallclothes, showing off his battered and bitten skin.

“Geralt, you shouldn’t have,” he says. As if he’s being _rewarded_.

“You’re right,” says Geralt. “I shouldn’t have.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, guys! I thought I'd conquered my kink hangups, but apparently not. But, we're all freaks here, anyway, right?
> 
> Thanks for waiting! Without further ado...

Geralt is accosted on his way back from an apothecary by a messenger. These days, the jobs tend to come to him, rather than the other way around. No small thanks to his bard.

Jaskier is drinking back at the tavern. He puts down his ale and looks with interest at the fine envelope in Geralt’s grasp. "What's that?"

"It's a summons from Lord Aldous."

Jaskier's eyebrows shoot up. "A job?"

"Finish your ale," says Geralt, ready to go. But Jaskier doesn't rush, like usual, eager to find out about the next monster.

“You know, I’m still so tired from the trip,” says Jaskier, throwing in a yawn for effect. “And last night’s, uh, company. I think maybe I’ll sit this one out, just this once.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. But it shouldn’t. Hasn’t he been waiting to hear, all this time, that the bard would stay behind? Where he’d be safe?

“You fucked his wife,” says Geralt.

“ _No_ ,” says Jaskier, as if actually insulted, like he’d never dream of sowing the seeds of infidelity.

Geralt just raises his eyebrows. His daughter, then, probably. But he doesn’t ask, since he doesn’t really want to know.

He’s a little less loathe to leave him behind now.

* * *

"How many dead?" asks Geralt. His voice echoes slightly in the large chamber.

Lord Aldous smells bitter with despair. And yet, he answers, "None.”

That's odd. Usually nobles don't bother opening their purses unless several have died already. Or one held very dear.

And werewolves tend to be vicious. Either they lose the battle between man and beast, or maybe it doesn’t matter, because men can be beasts anyway, with or without being cursed.

"Not any people, at least," says Lord Aldous. "But several sheep, cattle, and a sheepdog. After the drought, my subjects are too desperate to lose any animals. They'll be heading their own hunt soon, if I don't."

"Why bother?" Leaving the mob to handle it would probably be cheaper. "What aren't you telling me?"

The Lord’s face is desolate. "He's my son."

Oh.

"We try to keep him chained in the dungeon every full moon, but he’s too strong, he always breaks out."

"Silver chains," says Geralt.

Lord Aldous flinches. "Won't they hurt?"

"Better hurt than dead."

"I'll have them made,” says the Lord, with a nod. “But for tonight－please－protect him."

"I will."

And he'll protect everyone else in his path, should the man lose, and the beast win.

* * *

The Lord's son, Aryn, looks a little embarrassed, his heart racing loud. It's just the two of them in the dungeon, at nightfall. And Aryn is both naked and in chains.

Geralt is glad he left Jaskier at the inn. If he were here, he would definitely be getting some ideas around now, which he wouldn't be afraid to voice out loud, either.

Especially because Aryn is not unattractive. He's big and well-muscled, and fittingly hairy, with a good beard on his chiseled face.

"I'm sorry for, well, whatever happens," says Aryn.

Geralt hadn't expected this job to entail small talk. He clears his throat. "It's a curse."

"I just can't help it."

"Hmm."

"I haven't eaten anybody, though."

"That's a blessing."

Geralt is almost relieved when the moon rises, and the transformation begins. He's never actually seen one before. Even for his profession, it's horrifying－and fascinating. Particularly the smell, which changes from human to wolf, musky and wild. Bones crack, fur grows, muscles swell to twice their size. And the eyes turn yellow, meeting his own with despair, which then flares into rage.

Then the struggling against the chains begins. It probably takes less than half an hour for the werewolf to break them all. After that, he lunges against the bars, again and again, and slashes at them a few times with his claws.

Geralt throws some meat through the bars. That distracts the werewolf for a few minutes. But it doesn't sate the beast for long. He goes right back to lunging and slashing.

The witcher downs a potion for endurance. When the hinges break, he quickly casts _Quen_.

The werewolf can't break the magic seal so easily. Geralt just has to hope that the beast tires before he does. He drops to his knees, meditating.

The werewolf slows down, switching to pacing rather than hurling himself, maybe growing fatigued after all. At last, it circles around in place, and seems to curl up and sleep. But just in case, the witcher keeps up _Quen_. For hours.

Then the werewolf wakes up, reinvigorated. But now Geralt is tiring, the potion wearing off.

 _Quen_ drops. The werewolf bursts through his prison, knocks Geralt over, and splinters the dungeon doors, sprinting through the castle like it had done every time before.

"Fuck."

* * *

Geralt takes another potion as he runs, towards the stables, where he left Roach. That's his only chance of catching up.

Then, on horseback, he follows the scent of wolf. This werewolf is especially musky, like he wants to be discovered. His scent is uncomfortably close to human lust.

They ride through the woods, in the direction of town, rather than any of the fields where animals may be. Hopefully, the werewolf hasn't begun to crave human. They're not far from the road, close to the inn, if still surrounded by trees.

Geralt's heart drops painfully when he recognizes another scent. _Dandelions_.

What the fuck is Jaskier doing out in the woods at night? He should know better than to pick now of all times for a walk.

Geralt catches a flash of blue cloth, with a blur of brown fur barreling towards it. _No_.

" _Jaskier_!"

He dismounts and unsheathes his silver sword, running. But not fast enough. That fragile human body goes under, hitting the ground, beneath that hulking shape, the flash of teeth－

Too late－not too late－ _please_ －

His sword is held high, ready for the blow－

"Geralt, stop!"

There's no scent of blood, so he does. But he's still ready, sword still.

Jaskier is alive, those jaws above him not snapping, claws not ripping. The werewolf is _licking_ him.

"Eugh," says Jaskier. "I like a wet kiss, but－oof!"

What the _fuck_. At least he’s alive, but－ _really_? Is it just Aryn? Could be have been that domesticated? Or is it Jaskier, and that way he apparently has with monsters?"

Then it goes dark, as the moon disappears behind a passing cloud. The reverse transformation doesn't look as painful. Suddenly, there's a naked man on top of Jaskier.

"Aryn?"

"Julian," says Aryn. "I knew I smelt you. Uh, if you don't mind me saying."

"This is a nice surprise," says Jaskier. "Thanks for not eating me."

"I could never," says Aryn. "Not anybody, but－especially not you."

Geralt is starting to feel like he's intruding. But it probably won't stay cloudy the rest of the night.

Jaskier gives a wicked grin. "You're, uh, certainly happy to see me."

Geralt curses under his breath. He can’t see the arousal, but he can smell it.

"Forgive me," says Aryn. "It's not just the one hunger for flesh that I suffer."

"It's nothing I haven't felt before."

"Not like this."

Geralt clears his throat. But it doesn't matter.

Aryn groans, beginning to transform again, with Jaskier still caged beneath him.

Geralt kneels and grabs Jaskier by the shoulder, trying to drag him out from underneath. Jaskier lets him, flinching back in the awful face of the transformation.

But then the werewolf sends Geralt flying again, going to crawl on top of Jaskier again, cock still hard, if quite a lot bigger.

"Jaskier!"

"I'm all right," says Jaskier. "Look, like he said, he's not going to eat me."

He's right. The werewolf is busy rutting against the bard's hips. Jaskier makes a choked sound.

"He could still tear you apart," says Geralt.

Jaskier yelps as his clothes are torn. Those claws might've nicked skin. The bard’s lusty scent is shot through with a tang of fear. And yet.

"There's no need to fight him," says Jaskier. "I've got him distracted."

Geralt doesn't know what to do. If he wanted to get that beast off of Jaskier, he probably would have to use violence.

"Dammit, Jaskier."

He has to stay close by, in case things go wrong. But he doesn't want to look. It's enough to see the werewolf dragging Jaskier onto all fours, rutting between his thighs. The beast spills, but stays hard, rubbing between the bard's cheeks. Maybe there is a man still in that beast, after all, because it seems to be waiting, maybe for permission.

Jaskier reaches his around. “I’ll ready myself, all right, I’ll thank you not to put those claws in me－”

Geralt looks away, taking a few paces back. Close enough to lunge around the trees if need be, but he can’t watch. Even if he can’t help but hear, and _smell_.

“Oh, thank fuck,” says Jaskier. “You came so much already, that'll help－ _ahh_ －”

His moan slowly turns into a scream.

Geralt can’t tell if it’s pleasure or pain. So he has to peer around the trees, make sure the bard’s not hurt.

Jaskier looks so small under the growling creature bent over and nearly engulfing him. His eyes are squeezed shut, knuckles white as he clutches helplessly at the earth below. The werewolf takes him hard and fast and mindless, claws dragging red along pale hips. And yet, in spite of the tears running down his face, Jaskier’s cock is still hard. He bears the onslaught so bravely. And not all the sounds forced out by every merciless thrust sound pained, falling from those sweet lips.

Geralt’s fist trembles around the hilt of his sword. It feels _wrong_ , the heat pooling in his gut. He tears his eyes away, stalking off again, but not far enough to get away from the smell and the screams that shouldn’t be making him so hard.

The tears and the blood should put him off. But all he can think about is how they must _taste_.

Maybe he is a monster, after all.

But it’s over surprisingly soon. The screams quiet down to ragged breathing, and the growls grow fewer, almost rhythmic. Like snores. There must be some man left in the beast, after all, because after finishing, for the second or maybe third time, the werewolf curls up on its side and goes noisily to sleep.

Jaskier lays naked and bleeding in the moonlight, nearly unconscious himself, his limbs trembling terribly.

Geralt kneels and covers him in his cloak, before lifting him up. They can’t go far, in case Aryn wakes up, but at least Geralt has supplies in his saddle bag. It almost makes him flinch in surprise when Jaskier reaches his arms around his neck, burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

Shouldn’t it be his recent lover that cradles him like this? Lays him gently down, gives him water, tends to his love marks?

Jaskier whimpers as the witcher flushes the deep scratches on his hips and back with water, rubbing them with salve and covering them with strips of bandage. His shaking hand grips Geralt’s arm.

"Why do this to yourself?" asks Geralt.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him, his pout almost petulant. "Maybe I like being wanted that badly."

Geralt can’t keep a growl out of his voice. "He _hurt_ you."

That catches the bard’s attention. His blue eyes are bright with anger, his heart beating hard. "Sometimes love is _pain_ , witcher. Not that you'd know anything about that."

Geralt’s chest goes tight.

"Besides, you like them a little dangerous yourself, don't you?” says Jaskier. “You saw that mad sorceress shrieking and writhing on the floor and you just couldn't resist."

Jaskier has no right bringing up Yenn. Geralt has lain with only one other person, since he’s known Jaskier. Aside from a few professionals, usually while Jaskier is in another bed himself.

“And you know love?” asks Geralt. “Have you ever stayed with anyone long enough to know if it’s anything more than lust?”

“Fuck you, Geralt." Jaskier glares at him, his already red eyes glistening again with more tears. "You’re such a brute.”

Geralt just growls at him and rolls him over, so he can clean the wounds on his other side.

“But a gentle one,” says Jaskier, in apology. “If I didn’t get myself hurt, I’d never know how gentle you could be, would I? _Ow_!”

Geralt pinches him. Not in the ass－as badly as he wishes－but just on his flank, a ticklish spot below the ribs.

Jaskier laughs, still sniffling a bit. “You _beast_."

* * *

Geralt stays up all night, keeping watch over both of them. But it gets cloudy enough in the wee hours before dawn that even if Aryn awakened, it would be as a man.

Jaskier wakes up right at dawn, even without the sun, the sky bright but still overcast. It must’ve been instinctive. Even if he were on the leafy forest floor, instead of an unfamiliar bed.

He sits up, still wrapped in Geralt’s cloak. “Um－I’d better get back to our room, I think, before people start waking up, and see me in all my glory.”

As if he’d mind. He just wants to get away before Aryn wakes up. And he does, not long after the bard makes his escape.

Aryn’s scent spikes with panic. “Jaskier?”

“He’s fine,” says Geralt. If he glares a bit, he can’t help it.

“Where is he?”

Geralt just shrugs, cleaning his sword.

Aryn sighs. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that he could love me like this.”

“He had a good time,” says Geralt, not looking at him. “I don’t think the curse is the problem.”

“Did he say anything?”

The witcher shakes his head, truthfully. “He’s not the kind to be tied down. I’d think you would know something about that.”

Aryn goes quiet with thought.

Geralt didn’t think to bring spare clothes. And he’d given away his cloak. So they have an awkward walk through the woods back to the castle.

“If Jaskier changes his mind,” says Aryn, “He knows where to find me.”

* * *

“Oh, please,” says Jaskier. They’re drinking, back at the tavern. “He wanted me to stop barding! Can you believe it? Did he really think he could keep me around as his escort, fucking me behind his noble wife’s back? What would I do all day, cooped up in a castle? Not for me, thanks! I have to roam. Even if it’s hard on my poor feet.”

"Hmm."

Jaskier claps his back, beaming up at him. “But at least I’ve got you to keep me company. Someone to _hmm_ at my jokes. You’d never try to cage me. Well, actually, if you caged me a little, I wouldn’t mind.”

Geralt’s had more to drink than usual, trying to forget the sight of Jaskier on all fours. “What?”

“Nevermind. Anyway, besides, even before turning into a werewolf, oh, how Aryn used to _snore_! I’ve never heard you do that, not that I would mind－say, what’s with wolves and yellow eyes?－”

 _Wait_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Great, now I'm a furry. But so are you, dear reader. So are you.
> 
> Come hold me accountable on [tumblr](https://lilacsdandelionsandonions.tumblr.com).)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even trying to make the monsters canonical anymore. Now I'm just stealing from The Magicians. Sorry, not sorry.

"What are you doing here, exactly?" asks Jaskier. His hands find his hips, even though he's sitting down, on a boulder off the path, while they take a rest.

"Call it professional curiosity," says Yenn, similarly perched on a log.

Neither of them are dressed properly for this trip, maybe trying to outdo each other.

"Can't you wait for the song?" asks Jaskier.

"I'd like to see a demigod with my own eyes," says Yenn. "Not through your paltry rhymes－if you could even call your verses that."

Geralt winces internally. He'd better hurry up and give them something else to occupy those barbed tongues. He fetches his pack and begins dividing up their provisions, jerky and dried fruit.

Jaskier's mouth gapes wide as he splutters. Yenn smirks, satisfied her shot found a weak spot.

"Just you wait, witch," he says. "I'm going to immortalize you in song. And it will rhyme－very good."

Not his best.

"I'll believe it when I hear it,” says Yenn.

Geralt hands them each their food. "Eat."

Yenn digs in, secure that she's won. But Jaskier looks up with a pout as his hand brushes with Geralt's, accepting his offering.

Geralt doesn't want to get between them. And he wouldn't know what to say in comfort, anyway. But he tries without words, letting his thumb brush Jaskier's cheek. That gets a smile.

At last, they all fall silent, tired and hungry, digging into their lunch. But only for a moment. It’s a boring meal, not worth the full attention.

“So… how are we going to fight a demigod?” asks Jaskier.

“Sorry, ‘we’?” asks Yenn.

“I _help_ ,” says Jaskier. “Tell her, Geralt.”

“You mean, on your back?” says Yenn. “Or is it usually on your knees?”

Jaskier goes red, shooting a betrayed look at Geralt.

“Jask, she can _read minds_.”

Of course he hadn’t talked to her about it. Even if she were Geralt’s only other friend, he couldn’t turn to his sometimes _lover_ about… well… his _other_ would-be lover. Who still hadn’t made a move, in spite of his now obvious proclivities.

And neither had Geralt. Because of those same proclivities.

“Well, you’re one to talk,” says Jaskier. “I’m not the only one here who likes fucking monsters.”

Geralt’s chest tightens with a sudden ache. Yenn shoots him a glance that might be concern.

Jaskier stammers. “I mean the witch, of course!” he says. “I’d say holding me at knifepoint and threatening to unman me is pretty monstrous, wouldn’t you say?”

Yennefer just rolls her eyes. “If I had used fangs, or claws, in place of a blade, you would’ve fallen in love with me on the spot.”

The bard’s cheeks go rosy again. He launches into a tirade, pointing a finger at her.

But Geralt isn’t listening. If he weren’t a monster, than why did Jaskier look at him the way that he always did? Lingering on the the bulk of his towering frame, the sharpness of his canines… then those blue eyes would flit up to meet his own, looking up into the witcher’s golden irises and slit pupils, with no fear.

He didn’t fear monsters, either.

Yenn must’ve said something cutting enough to end the argument. Jaskier storms off, like he means to face the demigod alone. So ends their rest.

Geralt catches up to him easily. Yenn entertains some distance.

“I don’t want to fight the demigod,” says Geralt.

Jaskier blinks at him, like he’d forgotten he even asked, earlier. “Then… how are we supposed to get its－? All right, I didn’t want to ask, but by _seed_ , uh… does that mean magic beans, or－does it mean what I think it means?”

Geralt nearly groans. For the whole time they’ve been walking, since they set out from the Lord Eamon’s castle for this job, he’s been trying not to think of it.

“It’s rumored to be a cure for infertility,” says Geralt. “Do with that what you will.”

“Eugh,” says Jaskier. “Are you going to have to－?”

He makes a slicing motion, usually the kind done at the throat, but much, much lower.

Geralt nearly winces, himself. “We don’t need… that much. Just… whatever it can spare.”

“Oh, so just a little－” Does he really have to keep making these vivid hand gestures? The witcher looks away, trying not to imagine that hand holding something other than air. “That much? Um… are we just going to march up there and _ask_?”

“Politely,” says Geralt.

“And… if it says no?”

“Not so politely.”

* * *

They reach the mouth of a cave at the base of the mountain, where the demigod is said to live. At first, it's cold and drippy, and seemingly empty. Their voices even echo.

"Hello?" calls Jaskier. "Ow!"

Yenn gives him a light smack on the shoulder, beating Geralt to it.

"I would think a demigod's domicile would be a bit... grander, no?" asks Jaskier.

'It's magic," says Yennefer.

Geralt and Jaskier watch as she pushes further into the darkness and disappears. They follow, and like a veil of mist being lifted, around them an antechamber appears, the cave now dry and warm, and furnished.

"A bit old-fashioned," says Yennefer. "Out of style by at least a couple centuries."

"I don't get out much," says the demigod.

Even laying down, on pillows and furs, he's huge, half man and half goat, like a faun. And naked, but then again, what kind of trousers could he get over those hooves?

Geralt wonders if he might have any relation to Torque. Maybe his mother had fucked this guy. At least he's got the face and chest－and endowment－of a man. Handsome, but were he human, the witcher would say that perhaps the god had let himself go a bit, more soft than chiseled, salt and pepper hair and salt and pepper fur.

"Have you brought tribute?" asks the demigod. "I can't remember the last time I had tribute."

"Shit," says Jaskier.

Yenn takes a vial out of her bag. "Here."

"What use do I have for your magic, witch?"

She squints at him. "It doesn't matter the use, just what sacrifice I'm making on my part. These ingredients don't come cheap and plentiful."

“Next,” says the demigod.

Her mouth curls with unspoken wrath.

Geralt leans in toward her ear. "Older gods are fickle.”

“Maybe a god no longer being worshipped shouldn’t be so picky,” she mutters.

"Right, let's just get down to it," says Jaskier. "We need something you usually just get rid of once you're done anyway! I'm sure you do it all the time, you must get terribly bored cooped up in here. We could just give you some privacy and come back, sounds like a plan?"

"You desire my seed," says the demigod.

Geralt shuts his eyes. He's got a bad feeling about this.

"I mean, not like that," says Jaskier.

Yenn eyes him skeptically.

"It must be earned," says the demigod.

Well, fuck. He's not even surprised.

Geralt and Yenn both look at the bard.

"What?" says Jaskier. "Oh, really, you think I'm that easy? Maybe it's time you did the dirty work for once, Geralt! I mean, the other kind! How about I look cool holding the swords and you're the one down on－"

* * *

Jaskier is on his knees again, his hands clutching furred thighs. Geralt and Yenn wait at the edge of the cave, but after crossing the threshold, they can still see on the other side.

The wet suckling echoes obscenely loud, as well as muffled moans. For all his protesting earlier, the bard is enjoying himself. The demigod runs giant fingers through his silky hair, leaning lazily back in a chair like a throne.

Geralt should've just fought him. It would've spared the strain in his pants. He doesn't even try to fight looking anymore, even though there doesn't seem to be any danger.

Jaskier's head bobs up and down on the demigod's cock. Lucky for him, it's not proportional to the being's height, small compared to his body, if still big for a human. The bard's lips barely fit, his mouth stuffed. He has to use his hands, and pull off for lots of long licks with his talented tongue.

Yenn has been watching, as well. A voyeur as well as an exhibitionist. "Would you like to know what's running through the little bard's mind right now?"

She sometimes treads the line between playful and cruel. But to be fair, sometimes the witcher struggles to tell the difference, himself.

"I should think it's obvious," says Geralt.

"It is, from the way he looks at you," she says. "Even now, he's imagining how you taste, hoping that you're watching, and that you like what you see."

"Then why does he fuck everyone－and everything－on this continent but me?"

"Because you haven't fucked him yet."

Jaskier makes a muffled whimper. The demigod holds him by the hair, rutting into the bard's mouth, almost down his throat.

Geralt just hopes that they both remember the purpose. It would be a waste for the demigod to spill down the bard's throat. As tempting as it must be.

But then the being pulls back, until it's just the head of his cock between the bard's lips. The demigod throws back his head and groans, thrusting a little again.

"Your tribute pleases me."

Jaskier pulls off, stumbling to his feet. His mouth is puckered a little, cheeks filled. There's spend on his chin.

Yenn hands him an empty bottle. He brings it to his lips and lets his mouth empty, until the little vessel is full. She takes it back, holding it up and examining it.

Once his mouth is free, he gasps a breath, stretches his jaw back and forth, and says, "Oh thank the gods. Uh, literally. I almost swallowed without thinking."

"Do you ever think before swallowing?" says Yennefer. But it's not as biting as usual, almost absentminded. 

"I'm sure you're never so generous," he retorts. "Is that right, Geralt? Ow."

Geralt swats him this time.

"This should be plenty for them to work with," says Yenn. "In fact, we should have some to spare."

Jaskier catches on. "What are you going to do with it? Practice swallowing?"

She just glares. "Its magic is potent."

Geralt doesn't trust her intentions.

"We should err on the side of caution," says Geralt. "There's no telling how much the king needs."

"Besides, there's more where that came from, " says Jaskier. "I'll bet he could go another round."

"What about you?" she asks.

"Oh, I see, you're too dainty to get on your knees yourself, is that it?"

Yenn looks the bard up and down, as if sizing him up. Jaskier flinches when she reaches a hand toward him, as if expecting an attack. But she just delicately adjusts the fine lace of his collar, nearly touching his bared chest.

"You have expensive taste," she says. "If you do this for me, I'll conjure you some clothes. Any outfit you've ever dreamed, I'll make it real."

Jaskier's eyes glaze over. Then he shakes it off, scowling at her.

"Deal," he says. "But it's not for you. I just happen to like this, may as well get paid to do it."

Yenn smiles. "Spoken like a true whore."

He tilts his chin up. "And an expensively dressed one at that."

After moving his jaw again, and rolling his neck, the bard puts his back to them, returning to the throne where the demigod is napping with a loud snore. He kneels again, waking the god with his mouth.

"What do you want with the seed?" asks Geralt.

He half-suspects the sorceress just wants to torture him.

She gives a tight, coy little shrug. "I have my reasons."

Why does he even bother asking? But there's else nothing to do while they wait but keep talking.

"Would you have been willing to earn it yourself?" he asks.

Jaskier uses his hand more this time, his jaw probably getting tired.

"Perhaps," says Yenn, with a grimace. "But I suspect he'll enjoy himself more than I would."

Geralt rolls his eyes, trying not to turn around, watch any more, though he can hear.

"Tell me," says Yenn. "Why haven't you taken him, if you know he wants it?"

His chest goes tight again. "You know his tastes now."

"He still beds other humans, does he not?"

He has to close his eyes to dare voice the question that’s been haunting him for months, maybe years by now. "But what does he think I am? Man or beast?”

She’s quiet. He turns to her, looking up falteringly.

“And－which does he want me to be?"

"That I can't discern,” she admits. “What someone feels is a lot harder to read than what they think."

“I don’t ask what you know,” he says. “Just what you think.”

Yenn sighs. “There’s no other way to find out, but to simply try. If nothing else, have a little fun.”

She turns to look at the bard, with a secretly fond little smile. “Besides, it looks like a good way to shut him up. If you don't try it, I might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this horny, furry journey with me. We're almost there!


End file.
